Poems to pass the time
by Brandosman
Summary: I'm bored, so I thought of making a poem on a topic of interest (to me). accept any kind, either rhyming or not, I can go through the PM. note: I'm not very good at English, so I will have errors
1. Chapter 1

A unique description of Adorno admired ...

I do not often agree with the neighbor boy about what the best ass. Noto general taste of the scrawny ass skinny models. I like big, hospital beds. I like the ass balcony, projecting and self-sustaining as an engineering miracle. The fine ass latin rapper, reggaeton, double pomp and prodigious alive.

I leave when I say ass verses. Maybe because there's more asses old atavistic that on tits, they really are an intellectualization. The tits are Renaissance, but the ass is primitive, neaderthaliano. With its attractive power unambiguous convergence inviting, is a prehistoric hit. Awaken our more bestial side: the mesh on all fours. The tits are a more recent invention, are prosaic. The ass, however, is lyrical, musical, lilting, hip wiggle indiscernible, the rhythm, the beat of the bossa portraying the garota that departs in Ipanema.

Because your ass is always away, always going going, inviting them to follow. It moves in the opposite direction of the boobs, they always come and so often alarming, threatening, almost warlike (I remember the tits of Aphrodite, Mazinger Z's girlfriend, who was fired as two missiles). The face tits, ass flees, is elegy itself be going as life itself and sad men left wondering what cutest thing, most graceful brunette that comes and goes with sweet balance toward the sea .

The Argentineans have ortho, Colombian hopoo, the Brazilian bunda, Mexican pot, jar Peruvian, Cuban or fambeco fridge, the Chilean has poto. Or rather, the Chilean poto not have, according to my friends who complain Transandean this lack and are amazed when they travel to Latin America. I myself almost got chained to the wall of the bastion of San Francisco, at the last Festival of Cartagena de Indias, to avoid having to go back and to continue admiring the incessant parade of Cartagena or whose ass haughty barranquilleras deserved this short article but not a treaty encyclopedic or poems as Canto General.

From the things that make up his ass women, which is more tender when I get close to the stove to heat. They can not help. Pass in front of a fireplace or radiator and close your ass, you hatch a while. The ass is the coldest part of a woman. Always surprising touch that temperature, the freshness of the cheek in the first encounter with the hand.

During the hug, you can get to the cheeks of two ways. One is from above, if the woman is wearing pants, but it is difficult and the tightness of the fabric prevents switching and spanked vital. The other form is at the bottom and that's the best, when it reaches a little ass lifting her dress, her thighs, and suddenly you get to these orbits twin, that abundance with both hands. At that moment you feel that the hands were not made for nothing else but feel that happiness, to feel every muscle of the body's soft gravitation, the exact weight of the Earth's roundness.

People often think that in sex, doggy position subjecting women. But I must say that addressing a woman behind the powerful legs can be the opposite: it is as attached to a locomotive,

as caught on the strength of life, you have to follow, it is not easy, one remains under its power, you have to work, giving much pump, coal for the machine. It is one which is subject to its high expectations, deep, subdued, emptying forever in the living area of this double mantis.

I once saw a man of about 45 years going around the park, running after her personal trainer. The funny thing is it was a Personaltrainer, and blue tights this evidenced gym teacher who had a doctorate in buttocks. As the donkey after the carrot, the man ran after her without thinking of nothing but that staff follow. Would not surprise me that a half hour would have a group of runners jogging behind a caravan. The music of the vehicles is the Pied Piper. Men, with their legions of mice, go after her, mesmerized.

Women know use their resources. I worked in a company in the same floor as an architect nosed (such narigonas sexy) and a 'tremendous fambeco'. She knew it was her best angle and did assert, with tight pants that left all trembling. It was one of those offices square, full of straight lines: the calendar grid, rectangular table desk, window, shelves, file folders. A place unbearable if not for the ass of the architect who sometimes went way to cash or copier. Her round ass was all around this office building. I think the only thing alive. Never tried anything (he reportedly had a boyfriend), but at a time I thought writing a novel with links to her imagined heroic. A novel that was going to head, with a nod to Greenaway, 'an architect's ass'.

Not even two lines I wrote that novel, but some poems that she never read. I remember I saw it before seeing it, sensed in a particular rhythm that had the sound of his footsteps, a weight, a touch of her inner thighs of mulatto false. When it appeared in the corner of my eye, I knew full well that it was her. And happened and everything stopped for a moment, the memo, the mail, the voice on the phone, all curled suddenly had no more straight, everything ovalaba, is bulged, and the heart was dancing half clerk. I do not exaggerate.

He was also full crisis of 2002. Everything was collapsing, falling ministers, presidents, falling economy, currency, stock market, large painted curtain fell on the first world, falling morale, income per capita, all fell except architect's ass seemed go up and up, more lively, more mordible, more spherical, more prancing on his swing through the corridors, passing in a shake conceited that seemed to say no, but do not look at me, but do not follow me, but dedicame poems. I hope she gets to read this one day and finds out the good that I did during those two years with just being part of my working day going so gracefully against the monkey off my hormone. And hopefully also learns that when they cast me, the only thing I regretted was leaving to see her walk down the hallway, wincing the Giant Peach dreamed of her ass.


	2. Chapter 2

**okay friends, I bring a story, which to me is good, a monterian, Monteria (a city of my country).**  
**come and read, if you have nothing better to do ;)**

* * *

The Telegram

With persistence that only Colombians have, a Monterian faced an interview that afternoon to try to get more jobs.

Arriving at the office told him, toward the interviewer, this is what happened:

- What was your last salary?

- Minimum wage - Responds Monterian

- Well, I'm glad to inform you that if you are hired by us, your salary will be USD $ 10,000 per month.

- Do you swear ...?

- Of course!. And tell me, what car do you have?

- The truth is that I have a cart for sell Raspao 'on the street, and a truck carrying debris subpart ...

- So, know that if you come to work with us immediately, we will give a late-model BMW convertible, and an Audi A6 for use by his wife, both zero miles.

- Do you swear ...?

- Yes sir. Do you travel abroad often?

- Good company, ... as far as I traveled, went to Moñito, to visit kin.

- Well if you work here, will travel at least 10 times per year, with agendas between Paris, London, Rome, Monaco, New York, Moscow ... among others.

- Do you swear ...?

- It's like I say, sir ... and I say more: the job is almost here!. I can not confirm 100% now, because I have to meet a requirement to inform my manager before, but is almost guaranteed!.

If tomorrow Friday at 12:00 at night, you have not received a telegram from our company canceling the entire process, means that you can come to work on Monday at 8:00 in the morning ...!

The radiant Monterian left office!. Now he was just waiting until midnight on Friday, and pray that does not appear any damn telegram.

The next day everything was optimism ... could not have been a happier one Friday. The Monterian met the whole family and told them the good news. Then summoned the entire neighborhood, and informed them that he was starting a giant BBQ, live music and rum subpar worldwide, which were all invited.

When it was 5:00 in the afternoon, and had sucked several cases of beer and rum and many kilo of charcoal grilled meat.

As the day progressed, more people came and overflowing joy.

At 9:00 pm the district was ecstatic and the party was boiling!.

Played a marching steadily in makeshift platforms, the people danced and ate, while constantly rolling rum. At 10:00 pm Monterian woman became concerned because he felt that it was too much exaggeration that ... but everything continued.

The woman neighbor beautiful, the coveted neighborhood, and began to dance and blatantly against Monterian tightened, making shameless flirting.

The band was still playing, the volume increased, the beer flowed per liter, rum or say, the people danced wildly, smoked meat on the grills and was consumed in quantities ...

At 11:00 pm the Monterian and was king of the neighborhood!.

Expense accounts, to entertain and to fill the belly of the people, at that point there were already giant figures ... but all would be paid by the first salary!. The Monterian woman was half afflicted , half worried, half jealous, half-resigned, half happy, half and half scared silly.

Eleven hours and fifty minutes o'clock ... and around the corner at the end of the street, see a mad motorcyclist, entering the street party at full speed and repeatedly playing the whistle of the bike.

It was the mail carrier ...!

The party stopped at one second ...

silenced the band together ...

Monterian's cousin choked on a piece of cassava ...

belched a drunk ...

a dog began to howl ...

My God ... ! ... Now who is going to foot the bill for this party?

'Poor boob...!', Was the phrase that the crowd murmured, and were repeated each other.

They threw a bucket of water over the meat grills, and even seemed to mourn the smoldering coals. Disconnected coolers containing beer kegs. The musicians came down from the dais.

The monterian woman fainted when the e-bike stopped in front of his house, and asked:

- Sir Jose Antonio Ortiz Rodriges?

- Yes, yes ... if ... yes sir ... I am ... I'm ...

The crowd did not resist more. A 'Oooohhhh' sorry was heard all around. Some began to gather their things to go home. Women wept embraced.

The men patted shoulders of comfort, to each other. Monterian's best friend crashed head repeatedly against the wall. The beautiful woman neighbor consisted skirt and fixed her hair.

- Telegram for you ...!

The Monterian could not believe it. He grabbed the telegram with trembling hands and his eyes filled with tears. He raised his head and looked with courage and sadness to the entire crowd waiting expectantly. A total silence gripped the neighborhood ...

Deep breath and began to open the telegram. His hands trembled and a tear slipped and fell on the pavement.

He looked back at everyone who idolized him a few minutes ago, it was general consternation. He managed to get the telegram envelope, opened it and began reading. The people waited in silence and wondered: "Now who is going to pay all this account? '

The Monterian began reading the telegram. As he did, his face changed expression, and it became very, very seriously.

He finished reading and stared absently, staring into nothingness.

He lifted the paper back and read it again. Finally dropped his arms, slowly raised his head, puffed out his chest and looked at the people waiting for him.

So ... a smile slowly began to take shape in the face of Monterian!. Then began jumping, howling with joy, jumping like a child, hugging those who were at his side in the biggest show of happiness and sight, screaming euphoric:

- Goodness motherfucker ... my mom is died ... .! Bitch ... is deaaad! NOJODA!

All the people jumped for joy and continued celebrating the new job of Jose Antonio Ortiz Rodriges.

* * *

**hehe is the story of a friend of my dad ...**

**I i was there :3**


End file.
